The Game
by PrestaVolwist
Summary: *Occurs directly after His Last Vow* Jim Moriarty has sent London into a panic, though all he wants is to play with his favorite pet, Sherlock Holmes. Both of them love to play the game, but what happens when they decide to toy with each other? Sheriarty. (Title is subject to change)
1. Chapter 1

The moment he first laid eyes on _him, _he knew.

Truth be told, it was a far more off-putting experience than he would ever admit. After all, he was a person who could read his surroundings like the pages of a book. He had never met an opponent that he couldn't beat. At times, his repeated victories drove him to the verge of perpetual boredom, but at the very least they could keep him entertained.

This, though, this was nothing like anything else he had ever encountered.

It was instantaneously apparent—bother appearances; no matter how hard he tried, deducing a thing about the man would be the chicken scratch on the surface of an ancient underground crypt. Who would want to waste their time doing such a thing? However, as their pleasantly tense discourse continued, it soon became clear that he was facing someone far more dangerous than "Jim from the hospital".

He had been tricked, played by a man who understood the depths of his mind, the worst his few weaknesses. And yet…

Situations that would frustrate other never failed to intrigue Sherlock Holmes.

That was the way he felt now. Sitting dormant, making neither motion nor sound in the hard black leather seat of Mycroft's car, he stared vacantly ahead, crystal blue eyes taking in nothing, giving away nothing. To anyone who did not know him well enough, it would seem that he had zoned off, thoughts scattering on the wind.

But there were some who knew better, Mycroft most of all. By the time Sherlock had made his way to his brother's office, the blank look had already manifested itself.

He had not been calm, Sherlock recalled. No doubt there was good reason not to be. When Mycroft lost control of a situation, it affected him in ways that he would prefer remain unknown to the general public.

"Little brother." Mycroft faced the window, gazing at London's perpetually murky skies. "The door." Sherlock complied, training his eyes on his brother's back. "Mycroft."

"Every screen. Every screen in London. He is, undoubtedly, looking for you." It would be difficult for anybody excepting Sherlock to pick it up: the halting tones of forced control in those few sentences.

Despite Mycroft's clear uneasiness, already, impatience was beginning to gnaw at Sherlock's resolve. Why let time get away? Every second that passed could have served as a second spent predicting that man's next move…

"Knowing him, the looking is already over. He would never advertise himself in such a way without being certain that he could discuss…terms with me as soon as possible."

Mycroft chuckled coldly. "Terms, brother? Do you mean to say that you intend to negotiate with him?"

Stony silence met the statement. The question was intentional, Sherlock was certain of it, and his brother knew full well what the answer would be.

At last, the younger cleared his throat. "I don't mean to cut you off early—well, actually, I do, but I believe I am currently missing a meeting—"

"Well then, why let me keep you?" Mycroft hissed, whirling around and approaching Sherlock until the two were nose to nose. "I assumed you understood what has happened here, but allow me to remind you. You, Sherlock, you and him both are criminals that some of the most powerful structures in Britain have permitted to fly free, returned to their normal lives! I am sure you realize…"

"How this looks to outsiders? Yes, absolutely, brother, and if I am not mistaken you are going to have a bit of a tough time restoring your own name as a result." An impassive blink punctuated his blunt remark. "Why so concerned? Slander here would cost you nothing elsewhere—"

"Because I have an incredible fondness for London; no, if I were to leave you unattended Sherlock, the damage you could do on your own is unthinkable!"

Mycroft drew a deep breath, eyes closed, as though willing away the uncharacteristically livid expression on his face.

"I will make this brief, as you evidently wish it to be," he said, retreating to the window. "This will not be a simple game like it has been before, Sherlock. Much more is at stake, and though you may not care whom you bring down with you in your attempts to _win_—" he threw out the word with disdain, clearly believing it to be too childish and petty for him, "I do. So…"

So.

So…what?

What had followed that last word?

No matter how hard he tried, not one word returned to him. He frowned slightly, his first show of emotion since the time he had entered the car. "Well, that wasn't brief at all," he murmured aloud.

"Say something?" The woman next to him asked, not once lifting her eyes from her mobile. He started. "Ah…no. No, nothing."

"Mhmm." Ava—no, Anna, she'd said (right?) continued tapping the keys of the phone. Now out of his trance-like state, he found himself unable to settle back into it, instead focusing on the constant tapping. He glanced over at her rapid fingers from time to time.

_Interesting, _he thought. Odd, but interesting.

What felt like hours later, they pulled up to his destination?

221 Baker Street.

He let himself out of the car, rather briskly walking to the door. His actions were mindless. Twisting the knob, making his way up the stairs—he put no thought behind them, having performed them so many times before.

There was no hesitation as he strolled to the entrance of the flat. No fear or worry, not even a hint of indecision.

And so, why was his hand simply hovering over the doorknob?

Again, he attempted to recall Mycroft's words. Not that they had meant anything of importance, of course, but nonetheless…

"So…"

With steady fingers, he placed his hand on the doorknob.

"Sherlock, I ask you one small favor."

He turned it to the right.

"There will be no blind guessing and checking. Whatever you do, take care that you get it right _the first time._" Mycroft had sighed, shaking his head. "And brother…"

He pushed open the door, right as his mind recovered those parting words:

"Stay out of trouble."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I probably should have done this the first chapter, but hi! **

**This is my first time writing fanfiction, and out of my love for Sherlock and regret that there aren't more Sheriarty fics, I'm posting this. I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: None of these characters happen to belong to me (sadly). As a fan, I am simply using them to tell a tale of my own. **

He was sitting in the armchair—the same one he'd used last he'd come to the flat, to be precise—examining a violin with a careful eye and a careless hand.

"The _Con Fuoco_, from Cardiff?" He dangled it before him with a limp wrist, casually twirling the bow in his left hand.

"Correct." Sherlock shut the door behind him—God forbid Mrs. Hudson enter uninvited. "Impeccable timing, as usual."

"Oh, but you know how much I _abhor_ being late." He pointed the bow in Sherlock's direction. "Play a bit?"

"Can't you?" The detective began to walk towards the chair opposite the man.

"Of course, imagine the pain of going to the primary school that _I _did, playing ballads by the age of ten, everyone being so pretentious—" Very unceremoniously he dropped both bow and violin to the carpet, crossing his legs and propping his head on one hand. "Tell me, why shouldn't I crush them all? Not just for being so ordinary, but for believing that that somehow makes them better?"

"One could ask the same of you. Why shouldn't you be crushed for thinking you're better?"

"I am better," he grumbled, like a stubborn child, Sherlock thought. "And BORED. I'm sure you know the feeling, that insatiable thirst for anything, everything to happen. It's all consuming, makes you go _mad._" He fixed dark eyes on Sherlock's face. "Or perhaps you could fix that for me?"

Sherlock stared back, lowering himself into the chair while contemplating his next words.

"Let's…talk."

"Couldn't agree more."

"How did you do it?"

"Mm, that already? Very forward of you. So how long have you known, Sherly oh friend of mine?"

Sherlock frowned. _Sherly? _

"I knew nothing past my suspicions."

"You've kept those suspicions to yourself remarkably well, then."

"There was no point in producing them without proof."

"How wise you sound, Grandma, REALLY!" Leaning forward, Moriarty whispered, "Care to divulge, now that you have your 'proof'?"

"Quick thinking." The words spilled out of Sherlock's mouth; he had been anticipating this. "You angled the gun, not to kill, but to damage. The bullet missed everything vital."

"Good, good."

"You would have bled to death, or at least unconsciousness, in mere minutes if not for one of your henchmen, taking you away as I stood on the edge of the hospital. When you were in the clear, you—"

"Called off the snipers, yes! And here I am, good as new, exactly the way everyone was hoping. Far less complicated than what you put together, I'd say." He smirked. "Forget me a moment, how have _you _been doing? I mean, I already know, but no reason we can't recap."

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. Moriarty's expression changed in an instant, going from snarky and eager to irritated and sullen. "It's going to be like that, then? Gosh, you have to make everything tedious. Fineee." He sighed reluctantly. "Parliament almost went boom. John's wedding, the photographer. That was an adorable speech, by the way, forgot to commend you on that." There was a taunting smile in his voice. "Oh…and yes. Can't leave out your most recent little problem."

"Magnussen."

"Ooo, you disappointed me there."

"He was blackmailing Mary—"

"Mary, John, Mrs. Hudson, GOD it's been YEARS, Sherlock, why can't you get rid of them?" Moriarty moaned, slumping down in the chair. "You realize that every new person you care for is a hole in the armor, you _know _that. You're only making this easier," he whined, casting Sherlock a resentful glance. "Always making the same mistakes, over and over, thinking nobody else could ever be as _brilliant _as Angel Sherlock—"

"He wasn't."

"Not hardly, but who cares? You wasted your time with that one, honey, you did."

Sherlock knitted his fingers together, intent on getting to the point of their discussion. The questions were commentary—he never made a query without knowing the answer.

"Two years, and you return."

"For you, obviously, since you're useless without me." The psychopath quirked his mouth.

"This time, you won't be staying behind the scenes as often."

"No!" The man let loose a jubilant laugh, spreading his arms wide. "Like hiding in plain sight, except no more hiding, no more Richard Brook. It's all me, Sherlock Holmes." An elated grin adorned his face. "For once, you have total access to me."

What on earth was there to say to that? Moments passed, in which Sherlock frantically wracked his brains for words, and he was certain it showed; Moriarty's smug look neared triumphant.

"And why…" The detective cleared his throat, taken aback at his own sudden hesitation. "Why would I want that?"

Now Moriarty threw back his head so violently it was a wonder his neck didn't snap. His laugh bordered on hysterical. "Don't PLAY, Sherlock!"

In one fluid motion, he was on his feet, looming over Sherlock, fury warping his visage. "Don't. Play." It was a guttural growl, laced with vitriol. "Has it even hit you yet?" He gripped Sherlock's navy scarf, yanking him closer. "Everything you do, I'm the one behind it. It's always me." His grip softened; he allowed his fingers to drift just above the scarf, barely brushing the throat of the one who wore it. Sherlock stiffened on instinct, but refused to waver.

"You'd have nothing to do, if not for me. Nothing, no one, not even you could save yourself from suicide, you'd be so bored. Wherever you are…I'm there." The fingers ghosted over his left cheek. _"And you love it." _

They were close enough for him to feel Moriarty's breath warming his lips. Something foreign welled up in his chest, unfamiliar and therefore unsettling. The longer the two stayed in this position, the stronger it became, despite his efforts to return it to whatever dark, forbidding pit of his soul it had crawled from.

"Well." Moriarty stood upright. "It's been nice, but I simply must be off." He straightened his suit, nodding once at Sherlock, and made his way to the door. "I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Sherly."

"You said 'Don't play'."

"Hm?" Moriarty paused.

Sherlock rose, turning his head to look at the puzzled man before him. "'Don't play.' I find it funny, Jim Moriarty." For the first in the entirety of their conversation, Sherlock dared to smile. "Considering that the game has already begun."

Moriarty stared, lips parted, though speaking nothing, hand outstretched to the doorknob.

Then he laughed. A soft, gentle laugh. "I knew you missed me."

Before he had a chance to reply, Sherlock watched as Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal and arch nemesis, vacated the room.

**Any feedback would be highly appreciated! I'll be sure to respond your comments, if you'd like. :)**


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